


Surrender

by ancient_moonshine



Series: Yacië [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Celebrimbor has no sense of self-preservation, Does Celebrimbor know who Annatar is, Feels, I am predictable garbage, Kneeling, Light Dom/sub, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Master/Servant, PWP, Smut, Subby Annatar, Technically Annatar's already given Celebrimbor his V-card, Tenderness, Truly Feanor's Heir, Utter Filth, Virginity Kink, but the thought still stands, subservience, yes he does
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:46:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22363573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancient_moonshine/pseuds/ancient_moonshine
Summary: Sequel to "Offering":“Do you yield yourself to me?” Celebrimbor’s voice is devastatingly soft against Sauron’s ear. “Sauron. Lord of Werewolves. Gorthaur the Cruel. Annatar. Whatever name you call yourself. Whatever name you’ll have.” Celebrimbor can see the exact moment where that quavering piece of light in Sauron’s eyes flares bright, breaks.“My lord.Master-" It's answer enough. Celebrimbor kisses him, and Sauron crumbles.
Relationships: Annatar/Celebrimbor | Telperinquar, Celebrimbor | Telperinquar/Sauron | Mairon
Series: Yacië [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1628155
Comments: 23
Kudos: 131





	Surrender

The side of his bed had been empty when he woke up. Celebrimbor had opened his eyes and held out his hand, smoothing it over the slightly creased sheets that still remembered the lingering traces of Annatar’s heat, his scent – subtle but sharp, akin to burnt metal. On the pillow lay a single strand of fire-bright hair, and Celebrimbor looks at it for a long moment, an odd softness stirring in his chest, remembering Annatar’s hair catching in his hands as they made love all night. At the end of it, Annatar had fallen fast asleep in Celebrimbor’s arms, completely exhausted. Celebrimbor had watched him, wonder a tight knot in his chest. He hadn’t known the Ainur could sleep.

(He hadn’t known Annatar would kiss him back, either, let alone surrender himself completely.)

Again and again his eyes had drifted down to Annatar’s milk-white throat, covered in reddened bruises from Celebrimbor’s mouth, like his chest and nape. Again and again, Celebrimbor’s gaze returns to Annatar’s neck, trying to see past the bruises, searching for old scars that are no longer there. That perhaps had never been.

He’d held Annatar until dawn had lightened the sky to silver, and then he’d closed his eyes and had sleep had swiftly claimed him. But when he woke up the next day, Annatar was gone. And when Celebrimbor had found him in the Mirdain’s forges, Annatar was distant. Shining as brilliantly as ever, dazzling the other smiths with his knowledge and barely even trying while doing so. As they work together, his demeanor towards Celebrimbor remains the same - almost deferential without being servile, the way he remembers the Maiar in Valinor generally were. But no flash of hidden warmth, or beat of greater intimacy glowed behind his gaze when he glanced at Celebrimbor in the forges. Holding himself in reserve, their hands not even brushing even though they stand side by side. Not even the marks that Celebrimbor had left on his throat remained.

It was as if that night hadn’t happened, and Celebrimbor can let it lie. Can accept the reprieve that was so clearly being offered him, with not a little relief as he forced himself not to let his gaze linger too long at the curve of Annatar’s neck, to linger at all as Annatar fell into step behind him as he always does, never straying far. (Never letting anyone else get too close, either. Celebrimbor’s full aware of his own admirers, and how they kept their distance when Annatar smiled at them.) The memory of his hands beneath Celebrimbor’s lips, his mouth around Celebrimbor’s cock, his voice, always soft-spoken and respectful, pitched low with need, his eyes – all of it, burning like a brand. The way he’d unfolded beneath Celebrimbor, so breathtakingly vulnerable that for a moment, Celebrimbor had almost forgotten what he was. Who he was.

He could have let it become a memory. And perhaps he should have. Already he has embarked on his own secret project even as he and Annatar work on the first few Rings of power, Galadriel’s warnings an insistent echo in his mind. But two evenings after their tryst, Celebrimbor finds himself turning down the corridor to Annatar’s wing of the palace. His feet taking one step after another of their own accord as he finds his way to Annatar’s personal forge, his heart leaping when he turns the knob and finds it unlocked and slightly ajar, a lamp burning and the flash of Annatar’s bright hair glowing under the golden light. As if Annatar hadn’t noticed he’d closed it properly. Knowing him, Celebrimbor would have guessed it was deliberate, but Annatar doesn’t even look up from what he’s sketching on his desk. Not until Celebrimbor places a gentle hand on his shoulder, and feels him stiffen in surprise.

“Annatar.” He says, pressing the back of his hand gently against his cheek. Annatar looks up, his eyes wide, and Celebrimbor has to stop his breath from hitching. He’d never caught Annatar startled before. As Celebrimbor lifts his hand away, he visibly takes a moment to collect himself before he stands and bows, one hand clasped over the other, his neck inclined. Celebrimbor glances at the delicate curve of it beneath his stiff silk collar, tries not to think about sharp teeth tearing at it, about kissing Annatar’s pale skin until it was flushed red.

“Lord Celebrimbor.” Annatar says. His tone is quiet and formal, his eyes hiding nothing and everything. Celebrimbor studies him for a long moment, then glances at Annatar’s sketch. _Diagrams._ Concentric circles with script written in tengwar. “What brings you here at this late hour?” His voice is light, but he’s avoiding Celebrimbor’s eyes, and he catches the edge of something strained in his words. Celebrimbor looks at him for a moment.

“I wish to speak with you.” Celebrimbor says. “About us. About what happened.” Annatar flushes. Celebrimbor has always been blunt, but he’s never been this direct. Not even to Annatar, who he’d always made a point to treat just like any of the Mirdain, despite the underlying distrust – and desire - he was never able to shake off.

If he were of a mind to say it out loud – and risk Galadriel telling him _I told you so_ – he would have said it disturbed him to see the reverence with which the others tended to treat Annatar. How he always sensed there seemed to be something false about Annatar’s deference, even though outwardly he never saw a reason why. But for all his doubt he’d never shunned Annatar, or turned him away. Annatar remains… Annatar. A teacher, a guide, a servant. Some part of Celebrimbor hesitates to call him _friend,_ but if he were to be truthful, Annatar is even more than that. He’s the person who knows Celebrimbor’s own mind best after himself, the one who, as the the years passed, became the person that Celebrimbor could no longer imagine would not be by his side. The other half in all his works.

 _And now, after that night_ … He glances again at the diagram Annatar was working on – what he realizes is a set of blueprints showing sketches of a ring. Annatar had been writing detailed notes, and Celebrimbor had clearly interrupted him mid-word. His eyes follow Celebrimbor, but he makes no move to hide his work. Celebrimbor doesn’t miss the subtle strain of Annatar’s body, angled towards him.

“Forgive me, my Lord, but it has been a very long day.” Annatar says after a short silence. “There are things I do not wish to discuss at this late hour.” Celebrimbor blinks at Annatar’s uncharacteristic evasiveness. But Annatar’s gaze is steady and calm, betraying nothing. Like he’s brokering a deal for mithril with a Southern diplomat instead of speaking with his lord. His lover. Celebrimbor gives him a slow nod.

“I understand.” He says. But neither is Celebrimbor to be deterred. “Rest well. We will speak in the morning.” Annatar’s expression does a complicated twist. He fights to keep his expression unreadable, but when Celebrimbor turns away, he jerks forward. As if barely stopping himself from taking one aborted step closer.

Annatar catches himself, falling still like a guilty child, but Celebrimbor doesn’t miss the flash of hope, of hollow hungry longing, as Celebrimbor turns back towards him. And when Celebrimbor looks at him, he lowers his gaze for a fraction of a second before dragging it back up with almost defiant force. Like he was fighting with his own instincts by holding Celebrimbor’s gaze, and that’s what tells Celebrimbor _this is real_.

(He remembers Annatar before him, painfully vulnerable and desperate to please, to serve and offer himself up, and longing makes his mouth go dry.)

Celebrimbor faces Annatar fully, and at the hastily-quelled relief that sparks through Annatar’s gaze, he makes up his mind.

”Sit down.” He says. “I _will_ speak with you, whether you will it or not.” His voice is soft, but the command is clear. For a moment, Annatar looks like he’s wrestling with himself. Sudden rebellious rage flashing in his eyes, almost too quick to catch, and anyone but Celebrimbor would have been cowed. But he is still of Fëanor’s blood, for good or for ill, and for all his wary caution, he finds that his grandfather’s recklessness still burns as strongly in him as reaches forwards, grips Annatar’s chin with his thumb and forefinger and gently forces him to look up. Staring him down, as his uncle Celegorm had taught him to face down snarling wolves. Which is fitting, Celebrimbor thinks with a touch of wry humor.

(He doubts his uncle Finrod would feel the same.)

For a moment, Celebrimbor wonders if Annatar would burn the workshop, Celebrimbor, Ost-in-Edhil, the whole of Eregion down with the fury consuming his face like a forest fire. But Celebrimbor doesn’t look away, and neither does he let go.

“I said sit down.” He tightens his grip, he does not look away, and it’s Annatar who breaks. 

Annatar does not sit. He kneels. A shudder goes through him as his knees hit the floor, and his spine relaxes. Like there’s relief in the breaking as he gives himself over to Celebrimbor’s command. His lips part, and Celebrimbor can feel his breath fan lightly against the skin of his wrist. Annatar’s lips parting as Celebrimbor presses his thumb down against his bottom lip. If he hadn’t been tilting his face up, Celebrimbor knows, Annatar would have lowered his head, pressed his forehead to the ground, maybe kissed his feet. The thought makes him cradle Annatar’s face even more tenderly against his palm as hot _want_ burns beneath his skin.

Annatar watches him through his lashes, his face taut with anticipation. Like he’s waiting for an order, or a kiss. Or both. His fingers twitch, and Celebrimbor brushes thumb against his mouth with excruciating gentleness. Annatar sucks in a breath, a small choked sound that was nothing but need, but he doesn’t pull away. Not even when Celebrimbor takes his face between his hands.

Annatar jerks in surprise, and Celebrimbor unconsciously tightens his grip, remembering that night. The look on Annatar’s face as Celebrimbor cradled his face between his hands and took his mouth. With slow, careful deliberation, he touches Annatar’s face, stroking the sharp planes and angles there, wondering at the give of it. Stroking his neck, feeling him shiver and try to lower his head further, bow deeper. That strange lightness - not insubstantial, as Celebrimbor had touched Annatar and raked his nails, his mouth over his skin over and over again during that night. But Annatar does not feel like he belongs to this world, and the only words Celebrimbor has to describe what it makes him feel to touch him would be borrowed from the precise sensation of Annatar falling asleep in his arms.

“If you truly don’t want me here, tell me to stop.” Celebrimbor says softly. “Tell me to leave, and I will. I will never touch you again.” Annatar says nothing, his breathing is sharp. His eyes are wide, but he does not push away Celebrimbor. He remains on his knees, under Celebrimbor’s command. And as Celebrimbor caresses his cheeks with his thumbs, something breaks inside him. For a moment, Celebrimbor sees something horribly pure and fragile that Morgoth had never touched, staring out at him through glassy, frightened eyes.

Celebrimbor sucks in a breath, protective rage blazing through him, and Annatar finally wrenches his gaze away. Impulsively Celebrimbor reaches forward to cradle the back of Annatar’s neck before he can make a move to stand. Keeping his grip gentle and light, thumb tracing the unscarred skin. Feeling Annatar tense up, swallowing hard. Remaining on his knees even then.

“How much did it hurt?” Celebrimbor asks, thinking of teeth tearing at the fragile flesh. Annatar does not answer. In his eyes is the panic of a trapped animal.

“What do you mean?” Annatar asks. His voice is remarkably steady. _You would be an adept liar, the finest in all of Arda._ Celebrimbor thinks _._ And at this, Celebrimbor almost stops. This is folly at its greatest heights, the unmaking of everything he had ever claimed to stand for or built. But Annatar simply watches him quietly, like he’s trying to stare into the soul of him. Waiting, on his knees, his hands clenched tightly. Tense and almost fearful. An offering. 

Celebrimbor makes his decision. He does not let go of Annatar’s face as he kneels before him in his turn, pulling him into his arms and kissing him hard.

He _is_ innocent. In this, if nothing else. The give of his mouth beneath Celebrimbor’s is awkward, almost clumsy with inexperience. His gasp when Celebrimbor pulls him against his body is harsh and uncertain, like the sensation of lust itself is unfamiliar. Celebrimbor kisses him like a starving man, almost bending his neck backward with the force of his ardour. Annatar’s breath is sharp and broken against his lips, eyes flashing as he responds.

Celebrimbor pulls away when he can no longer breathe, and Annatar lets out a quiet sound of loss, tries to chase his lips with his.

“Be still.” He says. Annatar obeys, lowering his head and letting out a shaky exhale, his hands tightening around Celebrimbor’s clothed shoulders. Celebrimbor kisses his crown, his fingers numb and trembling as he unfastens the clasp of Annatar’s robes. Annatar shivers when the heavy fabric pools around his waist, Celebrimbor making quick work of his undergarments, caressing Annatar’s ankles as he removes his slippers. When he’s completely naked, Annatar reaches forward, and Celebrimbor lets him undress him in his turn, slipping off the layers of robes that he wore, his undergarments, his boots with unsteady hands. There’s an almost childlike wonder on Annatar’s face as Celebrimbor touches him, a fascination verging on worship, and Celebrimbor feels a twist in his chest at the fact this is probably the first time Annatar had willingly given himself to someone. And the first time Annatar – _Sauron,_ Celebrimbor’s mind insists upon the truth even as his heart insists on keeping him clasped in his arms _–_ has treated someone with anything approaching tenderness, and been treated gently in turn.

(Celebrimbor has watched Morgoth’s lieutenant handle the most fragile of objects with exquisite care, but nothing compared to the way Sauron’s hands had wandered down his body after pushing Celebrimbor’s robes off his shoulders.)

When they’re both naked, Annatar hesitates for a moment before finally standing and leading him to the bed. Sitting near the edge of it, and Celebrimbor can see how stiff his spine is, how uneasy he looks. His eyes wary as Celebrimbor sits beside him, taking Annatar’s hands in his and bringing them to his lips. He lays a gentle kiss over his calloused right palm, then his left. Letting it linger, warmth seeping into his skin. Remembering long days in the workshop, Annatar demonstrating some technique or another and Celebrimbor unable to stop watching his clever, delicate fingers at work. He would allow himself to wonder what they would feel like against his skin for a few precious moments before putting the thought from his mind, Annatar smiling at him as he looked away and Celebrimbor could never tell if he was aware of the desire that flickered through him, through them both like a barely-tempered flame. 

(Sometimes he wondered if Annatar could even comprehend his own yearning, as Celebrimbor occasionally catches it flickering across his face. And though Celebrimbor had kept himself distant, he had allowed Annatar to remain by his side. To always be with him.

Celebrimbor never knew how much he wanted until he had been given more.) 

“You like them.” Annatar says. He sounds curious, puzzled. Celebrimbor smiles against the calloused ridges of his palms.

“How can I not? In the dark, I will know you by touch alone.” He says, the barest flutter of breath against skin. Annatar’s breath hitches. His eyes go molten. He reaches up, but Celebrimbor’s hands tighten around his wrists. After one long look, Celebrimbor grasps Annatar’s wrists and gently pushes him back, so he’s flat on his back on the bed. His hands heavy as he strokes the silk of Annatar’s thighs, spreading him open.

“Sometimes…” Annatar whispers, shivering and unfurling as Celebrimbor kisses and kisses the soft skin of his inner thighs, gasping as his lips nudge playfully at his cock. “You get this look in your eyes…. I can never tell what you’re thinking, when you look at me like that.” Celebrimbor lifts his gaze up. At Annatar, his chest heaving and his legs spread. He crawls between Annatar’s legs, covering his body with his so that they're pressed together, his chest aching with tenderness when Annatar’s legs tangle around his waist.

“Do you know what I’m thinking now?” Celebrimbor asks, brushing their mouths together. Annatar lifts his shaking hands up, tugging at the dark curtain of his hair. 

“Yes. No.” Annatar whispers. “I don’t know. I-“ He trails off. Celebrimbor kisses him again, swallowing his sigh. His hands tangle tighter in Celebrimbor’s hair.

“I want to give you everything. When you look at me like that.” Annatar’s voice is small. He falls silent. Celebrimbor searches his face, but his expression is shuttered. Celebrimbor kisses him again, and Annatar’s lips part in a shivery sigh.

“So do it.” Celebrimbor murmurs. “Give me all of you.” Annatar reaches up, brushes his hand against Celebrimbor’s hair, tucking it behind his ears.

“You do not know what you’re asking.” Annatar says. “Not from me. You won’t want me, if you knew.” His mouth snaps shut. He’s said too much, and there’s a brittle light in his eyes that warns it will cut Celebrimbor if he goes after it. So Celebrimbor doesn’t. He kisses Annatar again, sucking at his lips and licking into his mouth. Speaking with actions rather than any imperfect words. _I know. I know. Lover, I know._

Celebrimbor had entered Annatar that first night, hands wandering everywhere he can reach, kissing his thighs. Annatar watching him with pleasure-drunk eyes, already hard again as Celebrimbor started to coat his fingers in oil, and Annatar had jerked as he reached between his legs. Eyes going wide as Celebrimbor started to open him up. The breath going out of him as Celebrimbor added one finger, then another, and every hitched breath and shiver of his _fana_ had filled Celebrimbor with wonderment. For the moment, Annatar’s body was a treasure under Celebrimbor’s hands, to be shaped any way he desired. Annatar trembling minutely beneath him and the look on his face so painfully vulnerable that Celebrimbor had to stop every few moments to kiss his temple and ask him if he was all right, if he should stop. But Annatar had shaken his head, urging him on by tilting his hips up against his fingers, his breath coming in in short, sharp pants. Unable to control himself anymore, Celebrimbor had taken Annatar in one swift thrust, tight heat engulfing him and the cry that broke through Annatar was nothing close to anything he’d heard on Middle-Earth.

(That was the moment, the moment that Celebrimbor's suspicions coalesced into certainty. The moment he _knew_ rather than just carrying that cloud of formless doubt. And that, was the fatal moment that he decided he didn't care.)

Now, as Celebrimbor opens him up again (the bottle of oil ready on the nightstand, and Celebrimbor wondered if Annatar had been waiting for him after all, and had been lying to himself about it), Annatar’s breath comes in short, sharp bursts. His eyes wide and almost terrified, but he clings to Celebrimbor even tighter. Celebrimbor gives him a lingering glance as he lines himself up with Annatar’s hole, pushes slowly into that molten heat, and at the sound of Annatar’s cry, he almost comes. It’s the cry of someone utterly vanquished: claimed, cherished and owned, trailing off into a trembling sigh that was almost a sob as Celebrimbor slowly, excruciatingly buries himself to the hilt inside him, balls pressed against his rim. Pulling out almost completely, then pushing in again.

Annatar’s flesh is heated gold. His fingers touch light, reverent trails down Celebrimbor’s back, legs wrapping around his waist, and Celebrimbor thinks hazily he can spend an eternity between his thighs. His breath catching as Annatar’s mouth opens in a silent song, and Celebrimbor sees that flash of light there again, quivering and faint but so, so pure. A trembling flame that Celebrimbor cups between his hands as he kisses him, firm and hard and possessive. Like he was daring Morgoth to return from the Doors of Night and take back what now belongs to Celebrimbor. And as Annatar responds with eager innocence, Celebrimbor decides to make the most singularly reckless decision of his life. 

(He’d been given a taste, and now he wants everything.)

“Do you know what I’m thinking about now?” Celebrimbor asks softly. Annatar shudders, shakes his head. Celebrimbor kisses him, lingering and gentle. Pouring out all centuries of pent-up affection, tenderness, need, and grief into the kiss, everything he had kept hidden, leaving Annatar shaking as he ends it.

“I’m thinking of you. Your true name.” Celebrimbor breathes against Annatar’s lips. “ _Sauron._ ” The name feels wrong in Celebrimbor’s mouth, but it is the name his lover had chosen for himself here in Middle-Earth and what he’ll be known as until Arda can be healed of the hurts he and his old master caused. Annatar flinches, eyes going wide with something approaching fear as he tilts his hips up to meet Celebrimbor’s thrust. Celebrimbor pushes the hair away from his forehead, nuzzles at his cheek. Annatar looks at him with shocked eyes, too overwhelmed to attempt any manipulation. His lips fall open at a particularly hard thrust, but Celebrimbor almost comes right then and there. But somehow he manages to contain himself, brushing his mouth against Annatar’s throat. Nipping at it, and Annatar shudders, hurt flashing through his gaze, but Celebrimbor chases it away with a lingering kiss against the vulnerable flesh.

“Look at me, Sauron.” He lets the command weave through his voice. “Dear one. Look at me.” Sauron obeys. His hazy eyes stare into Celebrimbor's, disbelieving, bewildered. Celebrimbor presses a gentle kiss against his forehead, smiling faintly.

“Don’t hide.” He murmurs. He trails a thumb down Sauron’s face, thrusts in deep. Sauron’s cry breaks around Celebrimbor’s ears as he picks up the pace, punishingly gentle. Reaching up to encircle Sauron’s wrists with his fingers like manacles. Binding Sauron to him as Sauron damn near _keens,_ hips thrusting up to meet Celebrimbor’s merciless pace.

 _How?_ Sauron’s question is a silent sigh against his mouth as Celebrimbor kisses him. _Why?_ Celebrimbor can answer neither, so he doesn’t try. Just kisses Sauron as softly as he can, touching him everywhere, transmuting him. Sauron’s body moving in time with his, as Celebrimbor molds his body according to his design. A collaboration that neither expected nor planned for, and as Sauron seeks Celebrimbor’s mouth in a desperate kiss, arching against him with a soft moan, Celebrimbor knows it’s a project he never wants to end.

A sudden sense of urgency seizes Celebrimbor. Words bubbling up inside him, lodging deep in his throat but he forces them out. Certainty like a shard deep in his chest, telling him that if he doesn’t say this now, he’ll never have another chance.

“When Huan had his jaws around your throat, Lúthien had you yield your tower, your dominion to her or be unhoused.” Celebrimbor says, his voice low. Sauron is staring at him. His eyes are a ruin. “I want something else. I want _you_ to yield something else.” He punctuates this with a firm thrust, and Sauron lets out a gasp. Celebrimbor had escaped his grandfather’s Oath only to bind himself with his own, and he can feel the weight of it hanging between him and Sauron, binding them ever closer.

“Do you yield yourself to me?” Celebrimbor’s voice is devastatingly soft against Sauron’s ear. “Sauron. Lord of Werewolves. Gorthaur the Cruel. Annatar. Whatever name you call yourself. Whatever name you’ll have.” He buries himself inside Sauron as deep as he can go, crushing him with his body, unable to stand any miniscule amount of space between them and he can see the exact moment where that quavering piece of light in Sauron’s eyes flares bright, breaks. “Are you mine?” For a moment, he sees Sauron hesitate. Celebrimbor kisses him, and Sauron crumbles.

“My lord. _Master_ –“ The small tapering cry that tears out of Sauron’s throat as he comes is answer enough, and Celebrimbor lets out a broken breath as he lets go.

It feels like hours before he remembers himself again, gathers the shattered bits of himself together into something approaching consciousness. All the world is sensation – Sauron’s heat, his little shudder as Celebrimbor moves away from him, the catch of his rim as Celebrimbor pulls out. The sticky heat between them, Celebrimbor’s whole body damp with sweat. Sauron’s trembling on the bed beneath him, his head caged between Celebrimbor’s arms as Celebrimbor nuzzles kisses against his temple and cheeks.

Sauron doesn’t blink. He stares at Celebrimbor, his gaze liquid fire, his limbs trembling as he sits up, and Celebrimbor splays out his fingers over his cheek. Pressing gentle kisses on his forehead, his face. Hooking his arms around him and gathering Sauron to his chest, stroking his back and shoulders until his shaking subsides, just like he did that first night.

Sauron bows his head. The bright fall of his hair hides his eyes, and Celebrimbor pushes it away, cradling Sauron’s hand in his when he reaches up. Sauron presses against his palm, eyes sliding half-shut as Celebrimbor begins to stroke his hair. When Celebrimbor tilts his chin up to kiss him, and Sauron shudders, and his response is shy but no less eager but there’s something bitter about the way he closes his eyes. Something furious, overwhelmed, and completely, utterly lost. Celebrimbor cradles his head against his shoulder. He thinks of the secret project in his workshop. Of the sketch on Sauron’s desk. He leans down to skim his lips over Sauron’s shoulder, and Sauron trembles, pushing his face against the curve of his neck.

“What do you want from me?” Sauron’s voice is harsh, raw and so very tender. Like he’s forcing the words out of him while tasting something inutterably precious at the same time. Celebrimbor holds him closer. Thinking of Galadriel, who must be warned. Of Three Rings that are hidden and will remain hidden from his lover. Of how much he wants to _keep_ Sauron, but if he can't - 

“Stay with me.” Celebrimbor says, his throat aching. "Just stay with me. That's all I ask." Sauron shudders, nudging his face against Celebrimbor’s throat even as Celebrimbor can feel him chafing, straining what Celebrimbor has bound him to. But he makes no protest, does not move away as Celebrimbor holds him tightly against his chest. Sauron shivers again, the tension easing out of him and he stops struggling, curling up quietly in Celebrimbor’s arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Celebrimbor, you really didn't think this through. Your aunt is gonna fucking rip you a new one when you next meet. [Hopefully you don't end up as a banner before she gets that satisfaction.]
> 
> Gratuitous smut and nebulous happy endings, hooray. :D Comments are beloved. Thanks to all who comments and kudos, you make my day. :D


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